


A Weekend

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen, MFMM Year of Quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:32:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: “After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”The length of a quiet weekend.





	A Weekend

**Author's Note:**

> So, two things:
> 
> (1) Yes, I absolutely had to write a third fic for this month. Canadian, hat trick, L. M. Montgomery. Practically my national duty.   
> (2) This is a set of four 100-word drabbles, at least according to my word counter. If ao3 messes this up, I am not going to fiddle around to figure out why. Just trust me.

_“After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”_

*

It is a Friday without a case, and that means that Phryne has an opportunity to do all those little things that have fallen to the wayside--responding to Jane's latest letter (the girl has flourished at school and Phryne could not be prouder), munching on tea and biscuits with Dot as Phryne tells her of her travels, and idly browsing the latest books and fashions in Melbourne's shops. There’s a hot bath, the oils leaving her skin soft and faintly jasmine-scented, and a towel freshly warmed. In the evening she gets dressed, silk and lace and pearls, and goes dancing.

*

It is Jack's first Saturday off in some time, and he spends it doing very little of anything important. He rises late, at least by his standards, tends to the house and the garden, bakes bread for the coming week; the rhythm of it is soothing, everything put to rights. In the late afternoon he takes himself to the beach, feet flexing in the soft, warm sand before he heads for the water. There is a hot cocoa and a new Zane Grey in the evening, and if that has made him predictable, he really can't bring himself to mind.

*

He arrives early for Sunday luncheon; sometimes it is a gathering of all Phryne's nearest and dearest, but this week it is just them. They talk, about work and books and all the things that cross the minds of good friends, and when they are done she leads him into the parlour for a game of draughts. They play for pride, though it makes the contest no less sincere, until the long shadows of evening stretch across the room. He rises and she thinks he is leaving, but he merely refills their tumblers and resumes his place at her mantel. 

*

Morning dawns, all warm blankets and morning stubble and sleepy intimacy, the slow slide of body against body. They know the silence will not last, and it is more precious for it. There's teeth against skin and laughter and sighs, and eventually a knock on the bedroom door.  
"Telephone, miss," comes Mr. Butler's voice, "for the inspector. There's been a murder."  
She leaps from the bed, wondering how quickly she can find a reason to be involved. He catches her arm softly, pulling her close for a kiss before heading for the bath.  
It is a Monday with a case.


End file.
